


Classy Girls

by AnEarHat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Fluff, M/M, Song fic, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnEarHat/pseuds/AnEarHat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Classy girls don't kiss in bars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classy Girls

**Author's Note:**

> This is because whenever I listen to Classy Girls by the Lumineers I always imagine this scenario playing out so I had to get it down. 
> 
> 1920's au because I like to imagine them in the fashion of the time, but with John's obviously a lot more modest than Sherlock's expensive getup.

Their glances first crossed paths at 7pm. Sherlock was surveying the crowded bar to ignore his company, John to ignore his lack thereof. Dark eyes looking up at him from beneath a low flat-cap made Sherlock stand up straight, push his sleeves to his elbows and step away from Victor, towards the lonesome stranger. The cap atop the stranger's head was pushed up so its owner could take in the slim figure weaving through the people, with his double-breasted waistcoat and altogether very aristocratic appearance. Sherlock grinned as he sidled up and leaned against the bar beside his stranger.

"Name's Sherlock."

"John."

"How do you do?" John found himself grinning back and looking to the barkeep, signalling for another drink. He passed it to Sherlock who swept up the glass without so much as looking at it. He sipped at the drink - Templeton Rye whiskey on the rocks - and nodded at John as it warmed his throat.

"Quite alright," came John's answer at last as he took his hat off completely and ran a hand through his hair, licking his lips. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and gently took a sip of his own drink before tucking his cap into the waistband of his trousers. The bar around them was full of people, chatting and drinking, standing very close to eachother and whispering sweet nothings into eachother's mouths, the atmosphere encouraging intimacy whilst the elegant smoke drifting from dozens of cigarettes suggested secrecy. The Criterion Bar was a converted basement beneath an abandoned set of apartments which faced into a dingy alleyway, popular amongst those who could care more for society's expectations; those who revelled in the secrecy of the establishment; those whose romantic endeavours were frowned upon in other places. It was a welcome mixture of working and middle classes, 'straights' and 'queers', boys and girls, mingling and forgetting which they belonged to. A small stage jutted from beneath a concrete arch at one end of the room, on which stood an elegant looking female who sang gentle French songs before a small band. Sherlock used the applause between one song and the next as an excuse to slide closer to John and lean towards his ear.

"Tell me about yourself," he muttered, voice low but loud enough for John to hear. Rumbling, whiskey-drenched tones in his ear made John's arms erupt in goosebumps, but he remained cool as he turned his face towards Sherlock's and began quietly explaining his humble beginnings, much of which Sherlock had already deduced by his clothing. John span stories of working on a farm until he was conscripted during the last leg of the war and was whisked away to sit in "a godforsaken shit-hole that some like to call a Trench", helping to patch up wounded soldiers but often in vain. Sherlock's eyes widened at the tales and he was enthralled - something not so easily achieved. John ended his stories by finishing his whiskey and looking down to where his wrist was being gripped by long, pale, and wholly unfamiliar fingers which had at some point absently drifted and settled there. He felt no compulsion to remove them and showed no signs of moving, so as another song finished and a new, faster one started, Sherlock gripped tighter. "Dance with me?"

The tiny dance floor had already attracted many of the people in the bar thanks to the more upbeat and exciting music. John tried to join them to begin dancing but Sherlock tugged on his arm and led him to the side of the stage where it was dark and much less crowded. "I don't think dancing to this will be quite as exciting if we're alone," John chuckled, allowing himself to press a hand to Sherlock's chest.

"Oh, we're not going to dance like those idiots," Sherlock countered, putting a hand on John's waist as the other took John's hand and threaded their fingers together. "Put your spare hand on my shoulder."

John chuckled and followed the instruction, stepping closer as Sherlock began to lead them in a slow waltz to the fast music. The space beside the stage didn't allow for too much movement, but the pair swayed and span regardless, pressing close and leaning into one another. The end of the song saw them in more of an embrace than a dancing position, John's head against Sherlock's shoulder and both cradling the other close. Sherlock smiled as the singer took a bow and left the stage, the band continuing on their own. He jerked his head towards her and lay her life bare for John. "20. Excelled at school but can't get her dream job because she is a female. She sings here for extra cash but has a very minor assistant's role in the morgue. She sings in French because it gives her more confidence - less people listening to the actual words. Lonely. Bisexual. Quite dull unless you're watching me deduce her," he muttered at the tip of John's head as it rested against him. He pulled back and was met with eyes wide with amazement.

"That's... amazing. How did you do that?" John shook his head and smiled. Their faces were close enough that they were practically breathing eachother in, both hazy from the whiskey and blushing in the warmth. Sherlock brushed his thumb along John's jaw and moved his head down, lips parting. John smiled slightly and shook his head, pulling away so that the only point of contact left was their hands. Sherlock frowned and John's smile turned into a fond one, a reassuring one. "Classy girls don't kiss in bars, you fool." Nodding, Sherlock tried to come to terms with the rejection that wasn't actually a rejection, used to getting what he wanted a lot easier than this. It didn't dim his determination and interest in John, though, instead amplifying it and making lights flicker on in a wing of his mind palace that was apparently going to be used for John and John alone.

They wormed their way over to a table in the far corner of the room, away from the dancefloor and most of the noise. Sherlock bought them drinks and set about continuing his study of John. He should have been adorable, he really should, with his tweed waistcoat and his turned up nose, and Sherlock could tell that in the right circumstances he would be, but here in the dim, close bar, he was something rather extraordinarily else. He was intriguing without needing the omniscience that Sherlock himself eminated, funny without meaning to be, good company without knowing that hardly anyone else was. And by Christ if he wasn't the sexiest thing that Sherlock Holmes had ever seen. He was asking about Sherlock. What he was studying at university, ("because I'm assuming you're there."), what he wanted to do afterwards ("No, not after the bar. After uni. Think with your _brain_ , uni-boy."), where he grew up ("Sounds fancy"), and all manner of other things that Sherlock would never have bothered to tell anyone else. Every so often he would let out a warm laugh at Sherlock's words, and the gaps in between were filled with genuine smiles and interested questions that kept Sherlock's normally ever-wandering eyes glued to John's mouth. He felt he was being drawn to it and something in his mind nudged him closer, telling him to go again for a kiss, and he certainly wasn't going to ignore it. John saw Sherlock's gaze resting on his mouth and noticed him leaning in, and almost considered meeting him halfway, the tempation tickling at him. Instead, he smiled and turned his head down. This time, he saw hurt in Sherlock's face.

"Why? What is it? Aren't you interested?" he asked, falling back into his seat and putting on a kicked puppy face. John smiled and reached to play with Sherlock's fingers, adoration sweeping through him.

"Of course I'm interested, look at you. You're not doing anything wrong. It's just.." he looked up from where their fingers were tangled. "It's just what it is. I told you. Classy girls don't kiss in bars." He earned a small smile and a squeeze of the fingers from his company.

"Fine. Okay." Sherlock stood and held out his arm. "So let's go." John bit back a grin and held onto Sherlock as he was walked outside into the crisp, sobering night. 

The walk to John's flat was mostly silent, the space between them fizzing with the best kind of tension. At way past midnight, there were no other people out besides the two of them once they were away from the bars, and so with the noise of their shoes tapping against the pavement as their soundtrack, they weaved their fingers together and stayed close, both smiling gently beneath the weak light of the moon and the orange glow of streetlamps. John rounded them onto a small, narrow street of terraced houses and stopped before one, turning to face Sherlock and taking both of his hands. Sherlock stepped close.

"We're not in a bar now," Sherlock reminded him, smiling gently. "Do classy girls kiss goodbye?"

John smiled up at him. "They most certainly do." He pushed himself up onto his toes and tucked a few curls behind Sherlock's ear so that he could kiss his cheek, smiling as he pulled back and walked up the steps to his front door. He opened his door and stepped through it, turning to see a confused looking Sherlock, and making a note to never forget that expression. "But not on first dates. Pick me up tomorrow evening," he smiled demurely. "And don't take me to a bar."


End file.
